Serving the Billionaire (13 page)

I went over to him, finally, under the pretense of refilling his drink. He looked up at me and smiled, and I took that as my opening. “Some of your guests are getting a little wild,” I murmured, hoping that the man he was talking to couldn’t hear me over the noise in the room.

Carter sat up out of his lazy slump and looked over his shoulder, at the men groping and licking and sucking. He raised one eyebrow and said, “You think that’s wild?”

“Well. More than usual,” I said, frowning.

He chuckled. “You’ve only been to
my
parties. Most of the parties here are—well. Maybe someday you’ll go to one.”

I kept frowning. I didn’t know why this was making me feel so unsettled. It wasn’t a surprise, after all; I knew that I worked at a sex club, and given the context, nobody in the room was doing anything particularly shocking. None of the dancers was protesting. Everyone appeared to be having a good time. But there was still something about the whole situation that made me twitchy, like there was an itch under my skin that I couldn’t scratch.

I was aroused, I realized, and not just from Carter fingering me before the party began. I liked watching the dancers being fondled by the guests, because I was imagining myself in their places. What would it be like to have those men desire me so blatantly, to touch me like that, out in the open, not caring what anyone thought? What would it be like to walk around naked, so confident in my own desirability that I lost all self-consciousness?

What would it be like to straddle Carter, right there in the middle of the room, and unzip his pants, and ride his cock until we both came?

A man called to me, requesting another drink. I shivered and turned away from Carter, letting him return to his conversation.

I welcomed the interruption. It let me return to the steady work of serving drinks, which kept my mind just busy enough that I didn’t have to think about the things I kept learning about myself. Being  around Carter was peeling me down like an onion, layer by layer, and I was afraid of what I might find at the hidden core.

As the evening wore on, and the guests drank more, they grew increasingly uninhibited. I tried not to look too closely, but I still caught flashes, quick glimpses from the corner of my eye as I turned or set down a tray of drinks: fingers sliding into a pussy, a mouth hanging open in ecstasy, a hard cock being drawn out of a pair of expensive wool trousers.

My face was flushed because it was hot in the room. That was all.

I lost track of time, too busy going back and forth to the bar to waste any precious seconds looking at the clock. My feet started to ache, which meant it had been at least a few hours. At some point, Carter beckoned me over, and I went to him gratefully, glad to return to him—my anchor, my safe harbor.

I stopped beside him and bent down, close enough that I would be able to hear whatever he had to say to me. “Mr. Sutton,” I said, trying to sound sultry, “how can I be of service?”

He touched the back of my knee, and drew his hand up my thigh, beneath my dress, until it rested directly below the curve of my ass. I stiffened, glancing at the man Carter had been speaking to, but he was on his phone, apparently paying no attention. I forced myself to relax. Nobody would care. There were naked women directly behind me; nobody would care that Carter was touching my thigh.

“I want you,” Carter said, pitching his voice just loud enough for me to hear it, “to go over to that gentleman with the purple tie, get on your knees in front of him, unzip his pants, and suck his cock.”

My head reeled. I must have misheard him. He wouldn’t have—he wouldn’t
actually
say something like that to me. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” he said. “I owe that man a favor. You’re mine now, aren’t you? Go suck his cock.”

I straightened up, suddenly feeling the need to distance myself from him. “I’m not—why would you ask me to do that? I don’t
know
him, and I’m—you don’t
own
me, you—”

He frowned up at me. “Why are you arguing? I gave you an order.”

My face flushed with blood, sudden heat, and then drained, leaving me cold. My head felt like it was floating a foot above my body. I was trapped in an unexpected nightmare, Carter suddenly transformed into someone I didn’t recognize. “I don’t want to,” I said.

He shrugged, indifferent. “I don’t care.”

How could I tell him no, when my refusal meant nothing to him? I said nothing for a few moments, trying to stay steady on my feet, thoughts running in tiny circles, like a trapped mouse. And then I opened my mouth, chest aching, and said, “Sassafras.”

His response was immediate and absolute. His face paled, and he dropped his hand from my thigh and sat back in his seat. We stared at each other, his expression blank with shock. I imagined that mine probably looked about the same.

And then I turned on my heel and walked out of the room.

I
called Germaine while I was waiting for the subway and told her I wouldn’t be coming to work the next day. She sounded puzzled, but didn’t ask me any questions. I was intensely grateful. I couldn’t have talked about what had happened, even if I’d wanted to. I didn’t have the words for it. Whatever had just happened, whatever Carter had tried to make me do, however I had refused—it was all beyond me.

The next morning, I slept as long as I could, and then lay in bed for another hour, eyes closed, trying and failing not to think about Carter.

Fact: he had asked me to perform oral sex on a stranger.

Fact: he had been stunned that I refused.

Fact: he had let me walk away without protest.

Implication: he thought that I would want to do it?

Consequently, implication: he thought I wanted to be his whore?

I rolled over, groaning, and pulled my pillow over my face. I didn’t want to think about anything. My life had gotten entirely too complicated since I’d met Carter. I knew there was a reason I’d stayed a virgin for twenty-four years. It was time to swear off men, and go back to being celibate for the next twenty-four. Maybe by the time I was fifty, I would have figured out how to interact with the opposite sex.

Finally, I admitted defeat and got up to make coffee. I would never know what Carter had intended unless I asked him, and I had no intention of ever doing that. In fact, I had no intention of ever speaking to him again. I should have cut ties the previous evening, like I originally intended, before the party, before I let him touch me. My mistake was, as always, letting his charisma influence me away from what I knew was the correct course of action.

So. Starting now, no more Carter. No more sex. No more intense interpersonal connection. I would go back to being just me, boring Regan, cocktail waitress and person of no importance whatsoever.

And he could go back to being Carter Sutton, most important man in the world.

At least to me.

I ground the heels of my hands against my eyes. I wasn’t making things any easier for myself.

My coffee maker whistled at me, and I gratefully poured my first cup of coffee. I was going to need way more than one to get me through this day, but I had to start somewhere.

I looked at the clock. It was noon, which was around the time I usually woke up. I should have made more of an effort to go back to sleep. At least when I was sleeping, I didn’t have to think about Carter.

I took my coffee over to the sofa and opened my laptop. My inbox was full of emails about impending Black Friday sales. I hated the holidays: I had no home to go to, and usually spend both Thanksgiving and Christmas alone in my apartment, feeling adrift. The last thing I wanted to do was spend too much money on a flat-screen television or whatever other useless junk I didn’t need.

I spent fifteen minutes reading through and mercilessly deleting every email in my inbox.

It didn’t make me feel any better.

I started making my daily rounds of gossip and fashion blogs—two things I had very little interest in, but had started reading about in an effort to educate myself. Since I started working at the club, I’d spent more time than I cared to think about reading reviews of different lipstick brands. It could be pretty overwhelming, but I figured there was a steep learning curve, and the only way it would become less confusing was if I kept plugging away.

And of course, because the universe hated me, the first website I opened had Carter’s face plastered all over it.

The headline screamed, “CAROLINA RAMOS STEPS OUT WITH INFAMOUS PLAYBOY CARTER SUTTON! BUY HER DRESS HERE!”

Infamous playboy
?

I clicked on the link. Carolina Ramos was apparently a model of some sort, and she and Carter had been spotted at an art opening on Saturday night, climbing into a limo together.

That was the same day I’d woken up in his bed. I swallowed hard, fighting against the sudden lump in my throat. There was no reason for me to be surprised. We hadn’t made each other any promises. He was young and handsome and wealthy—of
course
he was keeping his options open. I would be doing exactly the same thing, if I had options.

I opened a new tab and typed “Carter Sutton playboy” into the search bar. The long list of results didn’t reassure me. I clicked on the first link. “Carter Sutton at it again: fourth girl in two weeks????” I clicked the back button and opened the next link. “Carter Sutton still delicious, seen flirting with Amber Reynolds at Nobu.” The third link: “Tina Lafayette spills all about hot night with Carter Sutton!”

It was one thing to know, intellectually, that you were nothing, just a convenient diversion. It was another thing entirely to have it spelled out for you in 48-point font.

Of course I meant nothing to Carter. Why would I? I was just another disposable woman, not even famous enough for the tabloids to pay attention to. He was nice to me, sure. His mother had probably raised him right. But niceness didn’t mean anything. Most people were nice, for the most part. It was the default state for social animals: don’t smack the monkey beside you, and it won’t smack you back.

None of my rationalizations made it hurt any less.

I should have stopped there. I should have closed the browser and read a magazine, gone outside, done
anything
to distract myself, but I was determined to find something that would let me hate him. I needed to hate him. It was the only thing that would make me feel better. I didn’t think it would be very hard. He went to a
sex club
for fun in his spare time; surely he’d done something morally repellent that would make me lose all interest in him. Tax evasion, exploitation of workers, human trafficking.

But the more I looked, the more I regretted it. He hadn’t done anything horrible, and worse, he’d done so many things that were
good
. He was the lowest-paid executive at his company. He had donated 50% of his income to charity in the last fiscal year. He volunteered—oh God—as a Big Brother to a kid from the Bronx. He was, in short, a prince among men, and as I read article after article describing the many noble things that he’d done, I realized that he wasn’t just a pretty face. There was more to him than the womanizing smeared all over the tabloids. He was a
good person
, the kind of man that I couldn’t help but admire.

I really wanted to be able to hate him.

I was still sitting there, staring blankly at my computer screen, when my doorbell buzzed. I sighed, and didn’t move. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. It was probably just the mailman; he could leave whatever it was with the retired lady who lived on the first floor and was always home to collect everyone’s mail.

But the buzzing didn’t stop. It kept going, insistent, until I finally gave up and hauled myself off the couch. If there wasn’t some kind of emergency, I was going to be really annoyed.

I shuffled down the six flights of stairs to the building’s foyer. Someone was standing in the vestibule, a tall person, a man wearing a long overcoat—

Oh God
.

I hauled open the door. Of course Carter had come to see me, when I was still in my pajamas and hadn’t even brushed my teeth yet. He came into the main lobby, shaking snow off his coat. I didn’t even know it had started snowing.

“How did you know where I live?” I asked, the first words that spilled out of my mouth when I opened it. I sounded suspicious, even to myself. Well, I
was
suspicious.

“Henry told me,” he said, and at my blank look, “My driver. You had—remember, he dropped you off here, so—”

“I remember,” I said, folding my arms. “So you just decided to invite yourself over.”

“Well,” he said. He had the courtesy to look sheepish. “I didn’t know how else to get in touch with you. Germaine wouldn’t give me your phone number.”

“You asked Germaine...” I shook my head, disbelieving. What was he doing here? “What do you want?”

A door creaked open, just a sliver, and I saw Mrs. Jenkins peering out at us. I smiled at her to show that I was okay. She didn’t go back inside her apartment.

Carter had turned at the sound, and now he turned back to me and said, “Is there somewhere else we can talk?”

“You mean like my apartment?” I asked. “Is this your usual tactic? You show up at a girl’s apartment and invite yourself up?”

“I’m not—that’s not what I’m. You aren’t usually so...” He trailed off, blinking. “I know I screwed up last night, but I didn’t think...”

He was right; I was usually a lot more, well,
submissive
around him. But I was on my home turf, now, and he’d caught me off guard. I was confused and lashing out. I closed my eyes, trying to regain my equilibrium. “Okay,” I said. “You can come up. It’s a mess, though.”

“I won’t mind,” he said.

We climbed the stairs in silence, him following me. I frantically tried to remember if there was anything particularly gross or embarrassing in my apartment. I’d washed dishes the night before, and most of my dirty laundry was in the hamper. It was too late to worry about it anyway. He was here.